CONRAD
by BeauBrummelsByrd67
Summary: Conrad Birdie's story. What sorts of trials did he have to face while Albert, Rosie, Hugo, and Kim worked through their own problems? An attempt to show another side of the cocky rock and roll star and tell his story. Rated T just to be safe
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I recently watched the 1960's movie version of Bye Bye Birdie and really enjoyed it. Knowing nothing about it other than it was a musical and had a character who was a singer named Conrad Birdie, I was surprised to find that though he was a large part of the title, Conrad Birdie was a very small part of the movie's plot as a whole. I felt that his character was less developed then some of the others, and realized he really didn't have many lines in the show other than his songs. These observations prompted me to look deeper into the character of Conrad Birdie. I wanted to know what his story was, not what was going on with Hugo and Kim or Albert and Rosie, but what sorts of trials was Conrad facing after finding out he was being drafted? What was really going through his head on the Ed Sullivan show? Why didn't he fight back when Hugo punched him? In short, I decided to write a story that showed another side of the cocky rock and roller, one that gave more depth to his character and explained some of his faults. Hopefully I will succeed and my story will be enjoyed. As a small side note, I added a new character to be Birdie's manager because though Albert essentially played the part of manager in the film, his real role was simply 'songwriter,' and no mention of Birdie's manager is made. At any rate, without further ado, I give you...

**CONRAD**

Chapter 1

Conrad Birdie poured himself a large bowl of Cocoa Puffs and a glass of orange juice and sat down at the small dining table in his suite. He was trying his best to ignore the incessant chatter of the rotund, bespectacled man who was Michael Bergman, his manager.

"Are you even listening to a word I'm saying?" Mr. Bergman, who had been standing across the table from him, put his hands on the sides of the table and leaned forward, trying to get some eye contact.

Conrad's only response was to shove another large spoonful of cereal in his mouth, chewing loudly. _Man, will the guy ever shut up? I'm tryin' to eat my cereal here. It's too early for this! _

"Conrad! Stop crunching that cereal and listen you me for once in your life. I've got something important to tell you." Mr. Bergman peered at him over his horn-rimmed glasses.

His mouth full of the crunchy, chocolate cereal, Conrad looked up just long enough to see the red, frustrated look on his manager's face. _Who does this guy think he is, my mother?_

"I mean it Birdie. This news could change your career; _Permanently_!" Beads of perspiration were forming on Mr. Bergman's brow.

"Alright, alright, cool it man." Birdie set down his spoon and scooted his chair back, resting his feet on the table and putting his hands behind his head. " Let me guess..." He began, "You're gonna tell me that I just sold more records than the other nineteen acts on the top twenty list combined!"

"No, it's-"

Conrad didn't let him finish. "Oh, so I outsold the other _ninety-nine_ acts on the top _hundred_ list then. Hmm...impressive..." He smiled, tipping back slightly in his chair.

Mr. Bergman looked even more flustered than before. "Conrad, be serious. This isn't a game! I have something very important to tell you, and you've got to listen to me!"

"Okay, okay, well let's have it then." _Man, the guy's too uptight. He needs to loosen up a bit._

"Uncle Sam just called your number, Buddy."

With one hand still behind his head, Conrad gestured with the other for emphasis. "That's crazy. What would the army want with Conrad Birdie?"

"This is no joke Pal, you're being drafted and here's a letter to prove it!" Mr. Bergman stepped forward and thrust an envelope into Birdie's hands.

"What?" Conrad took one look at the envelope and nearly fell out of his chair. Swinging his feet down of the table, he stood to face his manager, accidently spilling his half full glass of orange juice in the process. "No! Huh-uh man. The idol of millions nationwide does _not_ get drafted! It just don't _happen_!"

Mr. Bergman seemed a little calmer and his face less flushed. To Birdie, it seemed as though the man might actually be enjoying his shocked reaction to the news. A slight smile tugged at the corner of the man's lips as he spoke. "Well, sorry to ruin your little theory of how life works, but it _did_ happen." He cleared his throat then added, "Farewell tour starts day after tomorrow."

"_Farewell_ tour?" Conrad's eyes widened in shock.

"Yes Conrad. Your one last hurrah. Possibly your swan song. No telling what, if anything, will be left of your career once Uncle Sam gets through with you."

"Get's through with me? What are you tryin' to say, man?"

"Oh nothing," Mr. Bergman paused, "Just that two years is a long time. All stars fade in time you know. If you're not out there where the public can see you, touch you, _hear_ you, well... they start to forget. Next thing you know, some young pigeon croons his way to the top, and WHAM-O!" Mr. Bergman slammed a fist onto the table to emphasize his point, sending Cocoa Puffs and milk sloshing all over the already soiled tablecloth. "All that remains of Conrad Birdie, is an album of greatest hits and about three minutes of radio air time, if you're lucky. Hardly a shadow of the star he once was." As he spoke, Mr. Bergman held his hat to his chest and looked toward the ceiling, like a man delivering a eulogy.

Conrad Birdie was not amused. "Impossible!" He stood and stormed off toward his bedroom, throwing over his shoulder one last remark before slamming the door behind him, "Conrad Birdie will _not _be forgotten! Not now, not _ever_!"

Disclaimer: Please be pateint with me. I will update this story as often as my schedule, and inspiration, permit. I _do_ intend to finish it, but it may take some time. Thanks! =)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sitting on the edge of the California King-sized bed, Conrad tore open the envelope and began to read. "You are hearby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination...*" Sure enough, the army wanted Conrad Birdie, and they wanted him _now_. _They aren't the only ones_. He pictured the crowds of adoring fans who flocked to his every concert and public appearance. _But for how long? _Tossing the letter onto the floor, Conrad slowly exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and let himself fall back onto the mattress.

"Possibly your swan song...Two years is a long time...Wham-O!...All stars fade..." For the next hour and a half, Conrad lay there, staring at the ceiling, as his manager's words swirled around in his head.

_Stars may fade, but Conrad Birdie does not! _Conrad propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the comfortably furnished room. _Why does Uncle Sam want me now? Man, I'm at the top of my game, I've got a good thing goin', I ain't ready to loose all that!_

The sound of a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Conrad! You awake in there?" Came the muffled voice of Mr. Bergman.

Getting up, Conrad walked over to the door and opened it. "You need something?"

Mr. Bergman gasped when he saw that Birdie was still dressed in pajamas and his animal print bathrobe. "Have you forgotten the interview? Get dressed. Quick! The editor of Heartthrob Magazine is going to be here any minute!"

"Relax man, I got it." Birdie closed the door and began changing into his famous gold suit just as he heard a knock at the door of the suite. Though he couldn't quite make out what was being said, Conrad heard two distinct voices. That of Mr. Bergman, and one belonging to a woman, whom he assumed must be the magazine editor.

After slipping on his boots and buckling his big "Birdie" belt buckle to complete the ensemble, Conrad stepped out of his bedroom and into the living room space of the suite. Mr. Bergman sat in one of the two overstuffed chairs which stood with their backs toward Conrad's bedroom door, and seated on the couch, directly across from him...

Conrad took a seat in the other chair and gave a low whistle. Somehow, he had been expecting someone older, less interesting, but the young, brown-eyed brunette seated on the couch opposite Mr. Bergman and himself was anything but boring.

Conrad watched as the young editor looked uncertainly at him and then back to his manager. "Um...Mr. Bergman, I _did _mention that this was to be a _casual _interview, correct?" She glanced back at the gold suit and then continued, "I mean, there was no need for Mr. Birdie to get all dressed up."

_Man, I wish _I'd_ known that! _

"Casual? Of course, of course." Mr. Bergman waved his hand as if to dismiss the subject. "Conrad isn't really dressed _formally_ you see. It's just that- Well...a man like Conrad Birdie can afford to be stylish on _or_ off the stage." He folded his hands in his lap and smiled at the young woman.

"I see." The editor flipped open the notepad that was sitting on her lap and picked up her pen. "Well, Mr. Birdie, it's very nice to meet you." She held out her hand.

Conrad shook it and started to open his mouth to answer when Mr. Bergman leaned forward in his chair and answered for him. "He's very pleased to meet you too, Miss... um...Miss..."

"Hale," she provided, "Violet Hale. Now, if you don't mind, I'd prefer that you let Conrad answer for himself during the interview process, Mr. Bergman. After all," she continued, "He _is_ the subject of my interview."

"Oh yes, of course Miss Hale." Mr. Bergman replied, sinking back into his chair.

"Thank you." Violet turned to face Conrad, "Now, Mr. Birdie, are you ready to begin the interview?"

"Ye-"

Mr. Bergman answered before Conrad could finish. "Of course he's ready. Why, he's never been so ready in all his life."

Violet shot him an angry glance before turning back to her subject. "Okay. Well, let's begin." She looked down at her notepad. "Mr. Birdie, what is your real name, first, middle, and last?"

"Co-"

Once again, Conrad's manager did not allow him to finish. "Oh, come on! Everybody knows his name already. Conrad Nathaniel Birdie. _That's_ his name. Oh, and enough with the formalities, call him Conrad, everyone else does."

Conrad caught his manager looking at him and agreed, "Uh, yeah, that's it. What he said."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Okay, I guess that _is_ a silly question. We'll move on then. So, Mr. Bir- uh, _Conrad_, when is your birthday?"

"Aug-"

"His birthday is August fourteenth."

Again Conrad caught the look his manager gave him. "It's like he said. The fourteenth."

Violet glared angrily at the manager. "Mr. Bergman, please. I would appreciate it if you would let Mr. Birdie answer for himself."

"He _is_ answering." Mr. Bergman insisted. "Didn't you hear him? He said I was right, his birthday is the fourteenth of August."

The remainder of the interview went on in much the same way. Though Conrad was used to this sort of thing, he found himself feeling somewhat peeved. Usually, if his manager did most of the talking, Conrad felt he was being saved the trouble of rambling through the same boring answers to the same old questions, but this time was different. Conrad really _wanted_ to talk to Miss Hale.

"Well," Violet stood to leave. "I guess I've done about as well as I can under the circumstances." She glared at Mr. Bergman and continued, "Anyway, I will be in touch sometime within the next week or so to take pictures for the article." She closed her notebook and looked at Birdie, "So, if you think of anything else that might be of interest for the interview, you can let me know then."

*Wording from draft notice taken from Vietnam era draft notice pictured at: .


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Why she's taking the pictures for today's interview 'in a week or so' is beyond me." Mr. Bergman shook his head as he latched the door after seeing Violet out, and then returned to his seat. He sighed as he sank down into the chair and muttered, "Well, I hope she's prepared to travel."

"What do you mean?" Conrad turned slightly in his chair to look at his manager.

"It just makes more sense to me to take the pictures for the article about the interview _at_ the actual interview, that's all."

"Then what's with the comment about her havin' to travel, man?" Conrad looked questioningly at Mr. Bergman.

"Have you forgotten already? In the next 'week or so,' you will be right smack dab in the middle of the farewell tour." He paused for a minute and looked at Conrad to make sure he was listening. "In other words, at that time you may be half-way across the country, or all the way on the _West Coast _for that matter!

_This tour sounds_ crazy! "Wait a minute. Just how _long_ is this tour gonna last?"

"As long as it _has_ to; As long as it _can_." Mr. Bergman leaned forward in his chair. "Face it Conrad. This tour is going to be your last chance to make some money _your_ way, before you go to work for Uncle Sam."

"Yeah, so?" Conrad sank into his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrests.

Mr. Bergman rolled his eyes. "Let's just say, the harder you work in the next few weeks, the more comfortably you'll be able to live after your short military career. Whether or _not_ your fans still remember you when you return."

Conrad could feel his face getting hot. "They'll remember me!" He retorted, sitting up and gripping the arms of his chair.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that." Mr. Bergman watched him from over his glasses, "But either way, this'll be the most successful tour you've ever had. Afterall, _everyone_ will want to have their chance to see you before you go off to valiantly serve our country. The shows will be completely sold out!"

Conrad stared at his manager in silence.

"Don't you see what I'm _saying _Conrad? Don't you _understand_? It's simple really. More publicity equals more fans at the shows, and more fans mean more green, cash, money!" Mr. Bergman took a coin out of his pocket and placed it into Conrad's palm to emphasize his point.

Conrad flipped the coin back to Mr. Bergman as he stood ane headed toward the door. "Uh-_huh_. Well, don't spend it all in one place." With that parting comment, Conrad exited the suite, slamming the door behind him.

As he strode down the hallway, Conrad heard the door to the suite fly open behind him and the sound of Mr. Bergman's voice calling out as the portly man tried to catch up. "Wait! Conrad! I don't think you fully understand what I'm saying...Please! Come BACK!

The sounds of pursuing footsteps soon stopped and Conrad could tell by the way he spoke that Mr. Bergman was trying to catch his breath. "Okay...al-alright." He paused a moment before going on, "You win, Conrad...Just- just be sure you're back by...Just be back by four thirty. You still have a concert tonight!"

_Yeah, a concert which I may or may not attend. I knew he'd give up sooner or later._

Conrad was happy to finally get away from his manager. He needed some time alone. However, shortly after exiting the luxurious hotel, and stepping out onto the street, Conrad realized he had another problem.

"Oh my gosh! Is it _him_? Could it really be _Conrad Birdie_?

The chorus of excited screams which followed the mention of his name told Birdie that the girl who had spoken was not alone. Whipping his head around, he frantically searched for the source of the noise, and found that the group was about a block away, and on the other side of the street.

_Oh great._ Conrad looked down at his flashy gold attire and then back at the mob of young girls who were in the process of crossing the street at a nearby cross-walk, and were advancing toward him at an alarming rate. _What am I gonna do, man?_

With no plan, and no more time to think of one, Conrad Birdie dashed out onto the busy street, right into oncoming traffic!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. Summer has been very busy for me, but Chapter 4 is finally here!

**Chapter 4**

Horns blared and tires screeched as angry drivers swerved to avoid hitting the gold clad celebrity as he dashed across the street. Yet, above the cacophony, Conrad could hear the frightened screams of his pursuing admirers.

"Oh my gosh! He could be _killed_!"

"I can't watch."

"Conrad, LOOK OUT!"

With one last stride, Conrad's feet found the safety of the sidewalk beneath them once again, and not a moment too soon. A blast of air nearly knocked him off his feet as a large metro bus sped by right behind him. Rather than contemplate his brush with death, Conrad thought quickly and used the bus's presence to his advantage, quickly ducking into a nearby shop. There were iron bars on the windows, and the sign above read _Hank's Pawn_.

Conrad quickly took in his surroundings. There was a long counter to his right which wrapped around to run the entire length of the back wall. Within a display built into the counter were several articles of sparkling jewelry and watches. The floor was covered in old appliances, electronics, and tools, and musical instruments hung from rows of hooks arranged on the ceiling. All available wall space was filled with shelves of record albums, clocks, and decorative items, and yet, Conrad couldn't see a decent place to hide.

"Can I help you?"

The voice had come from his right, and Conrad turned to see that it belonged to a tall, middle-aged man with a reddish brown moustauche. He stood, his lanky frame leaning over the counter beside a cash register. His nametag read 'Hank.'

"Well?" The man waited expectantly as Conrad approached the counter.

"Uh, well...Man, I gotta hide someplace." Conrad glanced over his shoulder nervously to see if the mob outside was still following.

Hank looked at Conrad's metallic ensamble and smiled slightly. "Hide?" He raised an eyebrow, "Who are you runnin' from, the fashion police?"

"Be serious man, can you help me or not?" Conrad was beginning to sweat. Though they hadn't found him yet, he knew it was only a matter of time before the girls discovered where he had gone.

"Well now, that depends..."

The man's cool, slow way of talking only added to Conrad's anxiety. "Depends on what?" he spat.

"It depends on who you're runnin' from." He paused a moment, "Now, if it's the police-"

"No, it ain't the police."

"Then who-? _Hey_, wait a minute." Hank's eyes lit with recognition, "You're that singer ain't cha? Now what was your name? Billy? Barry? No..." The man's eyes focused on Conrad's belt buckle, and he read, "Birdie... That's right! You're that Conrad Birdie fellow all the young gals are so crazy about these days."

"Shh! Not so loud!" Conrad glanced around nervously. "Someone mgith hear you."

Hank shook his head, "I just don't get it. If you're not havin' a problem with the police, then what kinda trouble could a big celebrity like you possibly- _Oh_," the man's eyes widened in understanding, "I get it." He frowned, "Well I'll tell ya boy. Bein' a father myself, I have half a mind to let the girl's father find you. And I'm warnin' ya, an angry father with a shotgun is about as merciful as a rattlesnake!"

Conrad took a step back, puzzled. _Father? Shotgun? _Rattlesnake_?_ "Man, I sure don't know what you're talkin' about, but there's a mob of girls out there lookin' for me, and I gotta lose 'em, _quick_!"

Now it was Hank's turn to be puzzled. "A mob o' girls?" He wrinkled his nose and stared at Conrad, "Heck boy, is that all? If only I were so unfortunate!"

"C'_mon_ man. Help me!" Conrad glanced back out through the barred windowsand then stared at the man, pleadingly.

"Alright, alright. Just relax and I'll make you a deal."

"A deal?" _Man, I don't have time for deals!_

"Yeah. You see, I've got an extra pair a clothes in the back room that I'd be willing to part with under one condition..."

"What's that?"

"You've gotta give me that there fancy buckle you've got on your belt."

The fear in Conrad's eyes suddenly turned to anger. "Huh-_uh_ man. No deal!" He shook his head, "If you think I'm goin' to trade my belt buckle for some lousy shirt and a pair a jeans then you-"

Hank quietly interrupted the tirade, pointing out a window at the mob of girls heading toward the shop, their eyes filled with determination. "Well...?"

"Then you've got yourself a deal!" Conrad hurriedly detached the buckle from his beld and set it on the counter.

"All righty then. Follow me and we'll see about that disguise."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

A few minutes later, Hank's Pawn was swarming with girls searching high and low for their favorite celebrity. Meanwhile, a very different looking Conrad Birdie slipped out the front door, unnoticed. Once back outside, he paused for a moment to adjust his lengthy blue jeans and red flannel shirt, careful not to let even the tiniest bit of gold from the outfit they covered show through. Then, pulling the battered cowboy hat down to hide his eyes, he continued on his way.

No one gave Conrad a second glance as he meandered down the sidewalk in his disguise. He was especially amused, if not a little disappointed, when the mob of girls that had been chasing him walked past without a word. _If only they knew_. He continued on down the street for about an hour, not really doing anything in particular, before he finally decided to head back to the hotel. After all, the whole purpose of getting out had been to relax and get away from Mr. Bergman, and, while he'd managed to succeed in the latter, he certainly hadn't found the outing overly relaxing. No, it was more like pandemonium; a pandemonium which was quickly overcome by the overwhelming sense of boredom that was now driving him back to Mr. Bergman. As he turned to head back, he quietly whistled a tune by The Rolling Stones. They were right, satisfaction was a thing not easily grasped.

When Conrad opened the door to his hotel suite, he was surprised to see Mr. Bergman reclined in an overstuffed chair, reading the paper, and enjoying a hot cup of coffee and some shortbread cookies. He seemed unusually calm considering the angry send off he'd given Conrad only a couple of hours earlier.

"Bergman?" Conrad slowly walked over to where his manager was seated.

Mr. Bergman didn't look up. "Hmm?" The answer was more of a grunt than a question.

"Uh, well man, I'm back now, so what am I s'posed to wear to this concert tonight?" _Man, I hope it's not the gold suit._

"What kind of a question is _that_?" Mr. Bergman set his newspaper aside as he sat upright in the chair and turned to face Conrad. "You'll wear the same thing you always-" The rotund manager gasped, his eyes blinking in disbelief at the spectacle before him. "What the heck are you _wearing_?"

"What does it look like, man?" Conrad smiled smugly. Conrad tried to stay cool. _He_ was the celebrity after all, why should he worry?

Mr. Bergman's eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of his head, "Don't get smart! You're not a country singer; you're a rock and roll star! Now, where are your clothes?"

_Oh great...there he goes!_ Conrad raised an eyebrow, trying hard to hide his nervousness, "Man, what kind of a question is _that_?" Conrad rolled his eyes, "I'm obviously _wearin'_ my clothes."

"Cute, real cute!" Sweat was beading on the scarlet forehead of the exasperated manager, "Don't play Mr. Innocent with me Birdie! You know what I mean. Where's your gold suit and custom belt?"

"Oh, uh, _those_ clothes..." _Maybe he won't notice that the buckle's missing. _

"Well? Where'd you leave them?" Mr. Bergman leaned forward in his chair.

"Why does it matter so much? They're _my_ clothes!" _Maybe if he thinks I've lost the whole outfit, he won't ask me to wear it and he'll never know about the buckle...Just maybe..._

Mr. Bergman stood and jabbed a pudgy finger into Conrad's chest, "And until your contract run's out, _you_ belong to _me_! So, I'll ask you one more time, where's the gold suit?"

"Alright, alright. Chill out man." Conrad began hastily unbuttoning the flannel shirt, revealing the shimmery golden material of the suit in question. "See, I have it right here. No big deal."

Michael Bergman lowered his hand and sighed in relief at the sight of the familiar gold material, "Why didn't you just tell me that to begin with? What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?"

Conrad stole a glance at the buttery shortbread cookies on the table beside the chair in which Mr. Bergman had been sitting. _He doesn't need me to give him a heart attack. He can manage that by himself._

"Well, then I assume you are still wearing your belt buckle too under that hillbilly getup."

Conrad didn't answer, he didn't even move, but something in his eyes must have betrayed him.

"Oh no, don't tell me you don't have the belt buckle."

_Why does he have to make such a big deal out of everything? _"Forget it man, it's just a buckle." Conrad tried to act nonchalant, but he knew that the belt buckle meant more than that. It was fourteen karat gold; custom made and very valuable.

"That's where you're wrong, Conrad. Those clothes, and that buckle in particular, are a major part of your _image_! Without that image, you're a _nobody_! A worthless, pathetic, useless-"

Conrad didn't want to hear how Mr. Bergman might finish that statement, "Okay, alright man! It's over there...That place across the street." He pointed out the window on the far wall.

Mr. Bergman rushed to the window as quickly as his legs would carry him. When he saw the sign reading "Hank's Pawn," he was furious. "Oh, no, you _didn't_... "He turned to face Conrad, "You pawned that belt buckle didn't you?"

Conrad averted his gaze, suddenly finding an interest in the appearance of his shoes. "Well, not exactly..."

"How much did you get for it? What did you do with the money? Now I know you spend money like it's going out of style, but what kind of debt could you possibly have that would cause you to-"

"No. Uh, there's no debt. No money either, I just sorta _traded_ it."

Mr. Bergman's face wrinkled in confusion, "Well what the heck did you trade it-" He paused, looking at the flannel shirt, blue jeans, and battered hat, "Listen, I don't know why you traded 14 karat gold for some lousy hand me downs, and quite frankly, I don't have time for your explanations, but I have one thing to say to you; Get over to that shop and 'trade' back, right _NOW_!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

A quick change of clothes and ten minutes found Conrad Birdie crossing the street and entering _Hank's_ for the second time that day. Mr. Bergman had lent him a derby hat, which he pulled down over his eyes, and he carried the clothes he had gotten from the man at the pawn shop in a plastic bag slung over his left shoulder.

A bell chimed as Conrad entered the shop, and the man behind the counter looked up. Despite Mr. Bergman's derby hat, the man's eyes lit with recognition, "Well hello there Mr. Barry! What can I do for ya now?"

"It's _Birdie_," Conrad corrected, "And I need my belt buckle back."

"I see…"

"Oh, here," Conrad swung the bag of clothes off of his shoulder and plopped it on the counter, "Your clothes."

The man behind the counter looked down at the clothes and then back at Conrad, shaking his head. "Nope. Those are your clothes now son. We made a fair trade."

"Well, I need to trade back now!" Conrad tried hard to hide the uncertainty he felt over the situation.

"I'm afraid I can't do that Bartie." The man smiled.

_Man, don't mess with me! This isn't funny. _"Why not?"

"Well, I just don't really think it's a fair trade."

"That isn't what you thought when we made the trade earlier." _Come on man, I_ need _that buckle_!

"Listen Berkie, you're the one who accepted the offer. To you, those old clothes were worth the trade." The man took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. "Now, I'm afraid I don't feel the same way. That buckle's worth a heck of a lot more to me than some dirty old clothes. So, no deal."

_What am I gonna do? I gotta get that buckle back now! _Conrad looked the man in the eye as he reached into his pocket for his wallet. "Okay, how much?"

A ring of smoke blew into Conrad's face and the man's expression brightened, "Alright, now you're speakin' my language."

Conrad only glared back at him, "Good, then speak mine and answer the question. How much?"

The man spoke slowly when he answered. "Well," he began, "I figure it's worth at least fifty dollars…"

"Done!" Conrad slapped a fifty dollar bill on the counter.

"Wait, wait, wait," The man pushed the money back toward Conrad. "Hold your horses boy, there's more to it than that."

Conrad gritted his teeth, "How much more?"

"Well, ya see," The man went on, "Seein' as how that belt buckle once belonged to a celebrity, I figure it's worth at least fifty percent more than that…So that would be about seventy-five dollars…"

"Seventy-five dollars?" Conrad stared at the man, open-mouthed.

"Yep. That's my price. You can take it or leave it. Oh, by the way, if you were plannin' on depriving me of them shiny gold shoes you left with the buckle…That'll cost ya another twenty-five dollars. _Plus_ an autograph." The man crossed his arms, and stood back, a smug grin on his face.

_Shoes_? Conrad had forgotten he'd left those. "A hundred bucks? Man, that's highway robbery!"

"Now wait a second. I'm not robbin' anyone. No one's forcin' you to buy the stuff. You wanted me to name a price, and a hundred bucks plus an autograph is what I'm askin'. If that's too steep for you, then don't buy it. That's the way retail works kid."

For a moment, Conrad considered leaving without the belt buckle and shoes, but Mr. Bergman's words rang in his ears. _Those clothes are part of your_ image_! Without that image, you're a _no_body… _With a sign of resignation, Conrad reached into his wallet and pulled out another crisp fifty-dollar bill. Setting this bill beside the first on the table, he picked up a pen and looked up at the man behind the counter. "Alright, where do I sign?"

With a victorious smile on his face, the man took the money and disappeared into the backroom. When he reappeared, he was carrying a record album which he placed in front of Conrad. "Sign right here," he pointed, "Right below your face."

Conrad looked down at the album. His face smiled back at him from beneath the title, _Honestly Sincere_. Rolling his eyes, Conrad signed the album cover where the ma n had asked him to. "There. Now can I have my stuff back?"

The man grabbed the album and held it up to examine the autograph. "Beautiful! Now this lousy album will be worth ten times what I paid for it!" Turning, he carefully began tacking the album to a wall display behind the counter.

"Hey! Hey! _Hello!_" Conrad shouted to get the man's attention, "I need my stuff back. I didn't pay all that for nothin'!"

Turning, the man looked at Conrad, "You're still here? Oh! Just a second." Reaching under the counter, he grabbed Conrad's gold shoes and belt buckle, placing them on the counter. "There ya go. Have a nice day Bernie!"

_Sure, a real nice day_. Conrad grabbed his belongings from the counter and rushed out of the shop. When he got back to his hotel suite, Mr. Bergman was standing at the door, arms crossed, waiting for him. "Well?"

Conrad wordlessly held out the shoes and belt buckle for his manager to see.

"Good." Mr. Bergman put a hand on Conrad's shoulder and hurriedly ushered him into the suite. "Now quick, change into that and meet me back out here in the hall."

Conrad opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"Hurry Conrad! We don't have a lot of time before the concert!"

With that, the door slammed shut in Conrad's face and he found himself alone in the hotel suite. Fighting the temptation to lock Mr. Bergman out of the suite and take a nap, Conrad walked into the bathroom to change and to run a comb through his hair. _Man, this is going to be a long night_.


End file.
